“Doesn’t exist—”

“You want me to believe so,” Gavril said with a harsh laugh. “But you are as full of lies and trickery as all your kind. Do you not think I know what will happen if you find the eld-folk? You will betray me, enspell me, and hold me hostage for ransom.”

Dain frowned, wondering if he was dreaming this. How had Gavril thought up such nonsense? Except . . . except that such an act of foul betrayal was perhaps exactly what Gavril himself would commit in Dain’s place.  “Gavril,” he said, fighting off another bout of dizziness, “listen to me. I—” “No, you listen! I am offered five times your weight in gold, plus the cure for Pheresa, plus a suit of Netheran-forged armor, plus a new treaty granting many concessions to Mandria, plus the altar cloth where the Chalice once rested, if I will hand you over intact.”

Dain swallowed a groan. He longed to sink to the floor, but Gavril’s grip did not loosen.

“Well? What say you to such generosity? Do you think you are worth that much?” “A fine payment,” Dain said with an effort. He was sweating, but he still felt cold. “Worth a prince.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“If I am really a pretender, would they offer so much?” Gavril clamped his hand atop Dain’s skull, and Dain nearly passed out. “Hold your tongue, trickster! I have something else in mind. Dain! Hear me!” He gave Dain another shake to bring him back. “As appealing as these offers are, I will ignore them. I will set you free if you will take me straight to the Chalice.  Right now. This very day.”

“You—you would leave Pheresa here?” Dain asked, wincing as the throbbing in his head grew worse. “To die?”

“Nay, fool! You said the Chalice would cure her. And so it will when I bring it back from where your father concealed it. Why should she suffer more, being dragged about in a wagon, when we can bring the cure to her?” Dain frowned, and Gavril shook him again. “Come! Let us ride forth this very afternoon. I give you this chance to decide; otherwise, we depart tomorrow with you in chains.”

Dain summoned all his strength to send Gavril a look of scorn. “You will never give me to the Netherans as long as you think I know where to find the Chalice.  Threaten all you like, but you won’t do it.”

Gavril bared his teeth. His blue eyes shone with triumph. “You’re forgetting something. Because I am a fair man, I have given you a chance to spare your life. Help me, and I’ll set you free. Oppose me, and I’ll let Noncire open your mind for the secrets it contains. I am told it is a procedure rarely done, for it brings terrible pain to the victim. Afterwards, you will be quite mad.” While Dain looked up at him in horror, Gavril flung back his golden head and laughed.

“The Netherans don’t care if you’re mad or sane,” he said, still chuckling. “I will know where to find the Chalice, and I can still deliver you—poor wretch that you’ll be—to collect my reward in Grov.”

Dain knelt there, desperately struggling to pull his wits together. “Sir Polquin!” he shouted, although the effort made his head ring. “Sir Polquin, come to me!”

Cursing, Gavril gave him a shove that toppled him over. The door swung open.  Expecting Sir Polquin to come charging inside to his rescue, Dain felt his heart lift with relief.

But as the door opened, he saw two figures struggling on the threshold. Dain tried to get to his feet but failed, and at that moment Sir Polquin cried out and sagged in Lord Kress’s arms.

Kress, out of breath, his face a grim mask, manhandled Sir Polquin inside the wardroom and shoved him to the floor.

Sir Polquin hit on his side with a thud, his back to Dain, and lay there unmoving and far too still. Dain picked himself up, swaying unsteadily on his hands and knees, and crawled to him. But he knew the truth before he touched Sir Polquin’s shoulder.

“No,” he whispered in anguish. “No!”

Dain rolled Sir Polquin onto his back, then stared down into his sightless eyes.  Lord Kress’s dagger still protruded from Sir Polquin’s heart. As Dain stared in horror, Kress bent down, bracing his foot on Sir Polquin’s ribs, and pulled the dagger out.

“Good work,” Gavril said.

“And this one gave your highness no trouble?” Kress asked, cleaning his blade matter-of-factly.

Gavril laughed. “Nay. He was easily tricked. Go outside and keep watch. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Kress obeyed, closing the door behind him.

Dain knelt there, too frozen with grief to act. Sir Polquin, so stern, so brusque, so gruff-spoken, had taught Dain his very first lessons in swordplay. A relentless taskmaster who demanded perfection, he had run Dain and the other fosters through endless practice drills. Quick to criticize, slow to praise, Sir Polquin had never treated Dain as less than the others because of his mixed blood. Now, grief swelled in Dain’s heart. He could not believe he had lost this man. Sir Polquin’s unfriendliness was surface only; inside, his heart had been true and loyal. Protector for less than one day, Dain thought, bowing his head as his eyes burned and stung.

“Mandrians slaying Mandrians,” Dain said hoarsely. “What vile infamy is this?” “Get up, if you can,” Gavril said impatiently. “Do not keep me waiting for your answer.”

“Was this necessary?” Dain asked. “Killing Polquin?” “You called him to you,” Gavril said without mercy. “You sounded the alarm that brought his death. If you want to blame anyone, blame yourself.” Dain felt the guilt twist inside him like the plunge of a knife. But it had been Kress’s hand that had done this black deed, not his. He glared at Gavril, hating him, and felt a terrible anger burn through his veins. He reached out, gripped the leg of a chair, and shoved it into Gavril with all his might.  The prince grunted with pain and surprise, and went staggering to one side.  Desperate to make an end of him before Lord Kress came back in, Dain tried to tackle him by his ankles, but Gavril dodged him.

With a curse, Dain turned to pull Sir Polquin’s dagger from his belt, but his body couldn’t obey him fast enough. He gripped the hilt, but he felt as though he were trapped in deep mud. His coordination, his balance, his strength had all gone elsewhere.

Gavril kicked him in the ribs, knocking him flat and sending him skidding across the floor. “I see I have your answer,” he said. “Very well! You were always a fool, Dain. I offered you mercy, but now you are finished.” As he spoke, he hit Dain again with his poniard. The weighted hilt felt like a hammer smashing into Dain’s browbone. His bones seemed to melt, and he fell. He tried to move, but his limbs would not obey him. Instead, he felt himself sinking into darkness.

Gavril’s voice, mocking and merciless, followed him down: “I shall send Noncire to you as soon as we have Thirst subdued and in our power. You fool! You have only yourself to blame for your destruction.”

There was no answer Dain could make. The darkness swallowed him then, and would not give him up.

The sound of voices arguing above him brought Dain back to consciousness. He came swimming up through the darkness reluctantly, feeling the headache still pounding in his skull.

He felt himself lifted onto a hard surface. The back of his head thumping against it jolted him to full awareness. He opened his eyes, and was instantly dazzled by golden light that made him squint.

“Hurry,” a voice said sharply. “He awakes.” Ropes were tied to Dain’s arms and legs, and he was lashed in place before he could make more than a token struggle. As yet he could see nothing more than silhouettes against the bright candlelight. He frowned, trying to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten here. If only his head would stop hurting.

“Sulein?” he said thickly. His mouth was so dry he spoke in a rasp. “Sir Terent?”

“Quick,” one of the men said, and a cloth was draped across Dain’s face.  The folds were heavy enough to make him feel smothered. He jerked his head but could not shake it off. He heard the rasp of a strikebox and smelled the sharp acrid scent of flame. Moments later, the cloying stench of incense coiled through the air. Trying not to breathe it, Dain grimaced beneath the cloth. A knock sounded on the door, and when it was opened Dain heard the rustle of thick robes and the whisper of soft leather shoes. He recognized the slow ponderous gait and inhaled a familiar scent of pomade.

“My lord cardinal!” one of the men said nervously. “All is in readiness.”

“Good,” Noncire replied. “Why is his face covered?”

“Er, to—to keep his gaze from enspelling us, your eminence.” “Foolish superstitions,” Noncire said. “Take it off.” The cloth was whisked away from Dain’s face. He squinted against the dazzle of light, but this time his eyes adjusted quickly and he saw that he was still in the wardroom. Candles blazed around him. In one corner a small iron brazier burned incense, sending forth thick crimson smoke.

Shimmering in white silk robes, a yellow sash of office encircling his vast middle, the cardinal gazed down at Dain with his small, beady eyes before he held aloft his diamond-studded Circle, which winked and glittered in the candlelight.

Angrily, Dain jerked against his bonds, but the ropes were new and tight. He felt neither slack nor give in them.

“Now, do not be tiresome,” the cardinal said to him softly. “Had you been cooperative with his highness, this rather tedious business would not be necessary.”

Feeling his heartbeat race, Dain glared at him. “You cannot part the veils of seeing! You have no such powers to look into my mind!” Noncire’s expression never changed. “But of course I do. And if you submit, it will be over quickly, with less damage.” He paused a moment, his eyes boring into Dain’s. “If you resist, you will suffer terribly.”

Dain frowned at him, seeking pity or compassion, and finding none.  “The Chalice of Eternal Life must be found,” Noncire said. “It is a terrible sin to keep something so holy hidden away where its tremendous powers and benevolence are wasted.”

“Sin?” Dain echoed with a hollow laugh. “And is there no sin in destroying my mind?”

“Tell your secret and you will not be harmed.”

Dain heard the lie in Noncire’s voice. “Its guardianship is my responsibility,” Dain said. “As it was my father’s before me, and his father’s before him.” “But you’ve been a poor guardian, Faldain of Nether,” Noncire said softly. His plump hand, the pale pudgy fingers adorned with rings of his high rank and estate, stretched out and gripped the front of Dain’s surcoat. A cold, smothering force seemed to ripple forth from his touch, sinking through Dain’s clothing into his skin and the very marrow of his bones.  Dain could not hold back his gasp of surprise. His eyes widened, and he stared very hard at Noncire, but he could detect nothing in the man, no hint of extraordinary powers at all.

“Your church training was a travesty.” Noncire gestured with his free hand, and the assistant priests began to chant something that made Dain flinch. Every word in the chant was like a pinprick, then a nick, then a stab.  “Clearly,” Noncire said, looming large over Dain, “you understand almost nothing of Writ, or you would know that our priestly training is based on ancient principles indeed. We are taught those first, before we proceed to the ceremonies of holding mass and giving benedictions.” “But you are against magic,” Dain said breathlessly, stiffening in his bonds as Noncire’s grasp tightened. “Tomias forbade it.”

Noncire chuckled. “How refreshing, to hear a pagan such as yourself call on the Prophet for aid. This is not magic, Faldain. It is something far older.” He pressed his palm across Dain’s nose and mouth, and his thick fingers were like iron, digging into Dain’s flesh. The clammy sense of smothering engulfed Dain, filling him with panic, for he could not breathe. Only vaguely did he realize that he was jerking against his bindings, jerking so hard the ropes sawed at his wrists. But his struggles began to ebb, for his body seemed to be freezing, growing turgid, inert, and unresponsive. Such a terrible coldness flowed from Noncire’s hands. It filled Dain, submerged him, slowed his heartbeat to a mere thread.

Desperate, Dain reached deep inside himself and thought of fire, thought of flames, smoke, and heat. Though it was a strain to even open his mouth, he sang of fire and flicker, of heat and hunger, of crackling, jumping, hissing, blazing fire.

Noncire closed his eyes, and the coldness in Dain increased, hurting now. Dain felt something clawing at his mind, trying to force its way in.  With all his strength, Dain struggled for breath to swell his song. He sang of Jorb’s forge, of the roar of flames beneath the bellows, of the sere, crackling heat dancing in the air above the firepit, of the glowing orange metal, half-molten and sparking beneath the skilled tap of Jorb’s hammer. And at last he felt the coldness thawing in him and believed, with a spurt of relief, that he was winning.

Then new pain spiked through his head, and Dain’s song faltered.

“The Chalice!” said a voice inside his head. “The Chalice! Where is it?” Memory came to Dain of the last time he’d seen the sacred vessel. He was high above the ground, perched on a beast that breathed fire and ashes. His father was nearby and they were surrounded by a crowd of people. There was an altar. A man with a cruel face wore a crown. Another man in pale robes held the Chalice aloft. How white it was. How brightly it shone, casting a clear pure light of its own.

When the man holding it aloft shouted words of anger and strife, the Chalice burned him so much he dropped it, dropped the sacred Chalice the way Dain dropped his cup at nursery suppers. And then his father started shouting words of power. Flames shot forth from the end of a mighty sword, and all the bad men fled.

“Fire!” Dain sang now, resisting Noncire. “Fire most holy. Fire of ash and wood.  Fire of power. Fire of sky. Fire of earth and mountain. Burn away the impurities. Burn away the dross.”

Noncire spoke and his grip tightened, but the cold was still thawing. Dain could breathe again, and the more air that filled his lungs, the louder he sang. Until . . . he felt something stir inside him, something he had never felt before. It was similar to what he felt when he’d wielded Truthseeker or Tanengard, and yet far different.

Tiny little flames sprang up along the ropes binding Dain’s arms. In seconds, the ropes were burned through, and Dain yanked his arms free. He knocked Noncire away from him, sending the obese cardinal staggering across the wardroom. His assistants scattered with cries of alarm, forgetting their chant entirely. The spell collapsed.

Sitting up, Dain tugged at the ropes still holding his legs.

“Guards!” one of the assistants shouted.

Dain swore. He yanked the last knot free, then flung himself off the desk just as the door crashed open. A church knight, clad in mail and holding a sword, loomed in the doorway.

Dain kicked the incense brazier over in the guard’s path.  Coals spilled out across the man’s feet, making him swear and jump back. Crimson smoke gusted up, filling the room.

Noncire’s fat face was blotched with anger, and his black eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Put that sword away,” he said harshly to the guard. “Seize him and hold him fast.”

Dain retreated a step. The wardroom was small, crowded with too many people and the heavy furniture. He backed toward the cold fireplace, remembering the secret passage concealed behind it that Lord Odfrey had once shown him.  But there was no chance to reach it. The church knight charged him, and although Dain dodged, he knew he had no real hope of eluding capture. Not when one of the assistant priests gripped him by the back of his tunic and held him just long enough for the knight to pounce.

Dain sent the assistant reeling back with a little yelp of pain. But then the knight reached him and put his dagger to Dain’s throat.  Dain froze, breathing hard.

“Good,” Noncire said. “Hold him fast.”

The guard seized Dain’s right arm and twisted it hard behind his back. He tried to resist, but the dagger point pressed harder, and Dain felt blood trickle down his throat.

Raging inside with frustration, Dain kept still.

Noncire came to him with malevolence glittering in his tiny black eyes. “Your eld magic has availed you little,” he said. “Now your defiance will cost you dearly.” His gaze flicked to the guard. “Hold him.”

Before Dain could react, pain skewered his skull with such violence and force he thought it had been split open. There was no fighting this time, no resisting.  The brutal, destructive agony seemed to have no end until at last . . . at long last . . . Noncire stepped back with a tiny smirk of satisfaction.  “Release him,” the cardinal said.

The guard obeyed, and Dain swayed on his feet a moment, wide-eyed and shaken, before he fainted into a black aftermath.

The sound of knocking brought him back. He lay in darkness, hardly breathing, his eyes staring at the shadows. After a while, the door creaked open and someone entered.

“Dain?”

Torchlight cast a glow through the room that drove back the shadows. Dain squinted, retreating inside himself as the footsteps came closer.  “What has happened in here?” Thum said in wonder. “It looks like everything has been . . . Dain! Great Thod above, Dain!”

Thum knelt beside him, gripped his shoulders, and rolled him over.  Dain winced and turned his face away from the light. It hurt. Sound hurt. Even darkness and silence hurt.

Thum touched his face, and Dain flinched. “I’m sorry,” Thum said, snatching his hand away. “Can you hear me? Can you speak? Morde a day, what’s bashed your head? Can you answer me? Dain? Sire? What’s happened to you? I’ve been searching everywhere.”

Dain wished he could just lie there forever. He wished he could burrow deep into the earth and never come out. He felt sick and gray and clammy. It was impossible to speak, yet somehow he had to know, had to find the strength to ask questions.

“You . . . well?” His voice was a croak he couldn’t recognize as his own.  “Of course I am. How can you think of me when you are in this state? Let me call the servants—” “No!” The effort of making that protest exhausted Dain. He reached out blindly, groping until Thum gripped his hand. Dain squeezed his fingers weakly. “No one,” he whispered.

“But what’s happened? I thought you were visiting Lady Pheresa all this time, yet when I went to fetch you for supper you were not with her. Her serving woman said you never came.”

Dain closed his eyes on a laugh he lacked the strength to utter. How normal it all sounded. He felt as though he was lying in a place thousands of leagues away.

“Still here,” he murmured. “Gavril. Not taken her away.” “Why should his highness go?” Thum asked in surprise. “He just came this afternoon. When you did not come to your chamber to change for the feast, I decided to look for you. I didn’t want you to miss the banqueting or the toasts.  Already the men are calling for their new chevard. Gavril is downstairs in his finery and has ordered his musicians to play merry tunes for everyone’s enjoyment.”

“Still here.”

“Aye, of course he’s here. I’ll tell you, he looked sour for a while about the oath service, but tonight his mood has greatly improved.” “Still here,” Dain repeated again, unable to believe it.  “I must fetch help for you,” Thum said worriedly. “Or has Sir Polquin gone for it?”

Dain laughed, a low, gutless chuckle that he could not stop until Thum gave him a little shake.

“In Thod’s name, sire, you’re in a bad way. Can you sit up?” Too late did Dain try to protest. As soon as Thum sat him up, he hunched over and was violently sick. Sinking back, he felt exhausted and wrenched. A cold sweat covered him, and he couldn’t seem to collect his thoughts, no matter how much he tried. There was something he needed to do, something he kept forgetting as quickly as he thought of it.

I am alive, he thought in wonder. I am not insane, and I am alive.

“I must get you to your chamber,” Thum said.

“No,” Dain whispered, trying again to think of what he needed to do. “Let me bide here a moment longer.”

They sat in silence a little while, then Thum asked, “Where is Sir Polquin? Has he gone to get help for you? Why isn’t he here? Who attacked you, Dain? What villainy has been done?”

Dain’s anger returned, and, though splintered and damaged, it revived him a little. “Kress,” he finally managed to say.

“Lord Kress? Did he strike you on Gavril’s orders? I hope Sir Polquin has treated him as he deserves!”

Sighing, Dain gave up the attempt to explain. Perhaps later, after he remembered what he had to do, he would be able to tell Thum what had happened. If he tried now, he feared, he would weep.

“Sir Terent,” he whispered in dread. “Safe?”

“Of course he’s safe. The arrow did not go deep into his shoulder. Do you want me to fetch him to you?”

Dain gripped Thum’s sleeve in alarm. “Don’t go.”

Thum patted his shoulder. “No, of course I won’t go. You needn’t worry.”

“Must rest,” Dain said.

“Of course. When you think you can stand, we’ll go to your chamber.”

“Must remember. Must think.”

“Not now,” Thum told him. “I am going to lay you down again and call a servant—” “Call no one!” Dain snapped, then sagged over and retched again. Nothing came up this time but misery.

“Your head must be pounding like a drum,” Thum said in sympathy. “I remember hitting mine once when I was little and fell out of a tree. I was sick too, and dizzy. I had to lie abed all day until I felt myself again. Gods! How dare these scoundrels attack you in your own wardroom. Their boldness is an insult that must be repaid in like kind!”

Dain, however, did not answer Thum, for he suddenly heard a low, humming melody that he vaguely recognized. It was a song, yet not a song. Although low and quiet, it seemed very clear.

“Dain—”

“Hush!” he said. “Listen.”

“To what? I hear nothing.”

But Dain heard it clearly, for the humming was louder now. And in his mind called a familiar, resonant voice: “Come to Truthseeker!” He drew in his breath sharply. That was what he was supposed to remember.  Truthseeker was in this room. It knew somehow that he intended to carry it . . .  carry it . . . to where?

“Can you stand now?” Thum asked. “Your skin feels very cold. You have lain too long in this unheated room. Come, let me help you up.” Dain shut his eyes, saying nothing. Thum rose to his feet and pulled Dain upright with a grunt, his arm tight and steady around Dain’s ribs.  “All right?” he asked. “You aren’t feeling sick again, are you?”

The room spun for a moment. Dain felt fresh sweat break out across his body.  With Thum’s help he took a single, feeble step, nearly fell, and managed another.

The torchlight glinted on something lying in the corner. It was Dain’s circlet of gold, lying where Gavril had flung it. In silence he pointed, and Thum bent to pick it up for him.

“Villains!” Thum said in a furious, strangled voice. He’d gone suddenly pale behind his narrow beard, and his freckles stood out plainly. “They who serve Gavril are cowards and knaves. To attack you like this! It isn’t to be borne!  I’ll give the order and have them thrown out of the hold this very night.” Dain lost interest in Thum’s outrage and turned instead toward the large wooden chest standing against the wall. Staggering and dizzy, he struggled toward it.  “Easy now,” Thum said. “You’re going the wrong way. The door lies in yon direction.”

But Dain would not be turned around. He reached the chest and sank to his knees despite Thum’s efforts to catch him.

“Please,” Thum said worriedly. “Come away. There’s nothing here to be done right now. Dain, come with me.”

Ignoring him, Dain struggled to lift the lid of the chest, found it too heavy, and nearly mashed his fingers before Thum raised it for him.  “There’s nothing in here,” Thum said impatiently. “Dain? Sire!” Reluctantly Dain turned his head to look up at his friend. “Have to,” he said, and reached inside the chest.

“What are you looking for? Tell me and I’ll get it for you.” Without answering, Dain shifted through the chest’s contents, pawing aside a stack of vellum and leather books, a cloak so old the cloth was rotting, a purse of gold dreits, a pair of lady’s gloves in finest silk yellowed with age, a worn dog collar, and a musty fur robe. Beneath all this lay a plain leather scabbard sheathing the magnificent sword made of god-steel.

Peering over his shoulder, Thum sucked in an audible breath. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about this sword. Shall I lift it out for you?”

“Nay.”

Fighting off another bout of dizziness, Dain gripped the weapon with both hands.  The ancient metal, wrought in ways mysterious, resonated with power that made Dain’s hair stand on end. He shuddered involuntarily, feeling the contact with it even through the leather and wood scabbard.

A surge of energy jolted through him, filling him with new strength until he no longer felt sick and dizzy. Some of the confusion fell from his mind. He remembered what Noncire had done to him, tearing into his mind to find hidden secrets. He remembered that he had conjured in his mind a false location for the Chalice. Only then had the dreadful attack ceased.

He’d saved himself, but even so he’d come far too close to destruction. Gripping Truthseeker now, he drew in several deep breaths and squared his shoulders. He hoped Gavril and Noncire sought the Chalice so far and long in the wrong direction that they both rotted of futility.

Dain shook off Thum’s helping hands and rose to his feet. Truthseeker hummed in his hands, its deep song for him alone.

No dwarf swordmaker had crafted this weapon. It was far older, made from metal so hard no ordinary steel could prevail against it. The guard, studded with a row of glittering emeralds, was straight, not circular, in a style predating the long-ago establishment of the Church. The gold wire wrapping the long hilt gleamed richly in the candlelight. The blade itself was carved, Dain remembered, but he did not draw it now to look. Although he’d used the weapon once, to fight and destroy a shapeshifter, he found himself wary and a bit afraid of Truthseeker’s tremendous power.

“I know your hand,” the sword said to him. “Fear me not.” Breathless, Dain gripped the hilt, and felt it twist in his hand as though fitting itself to his grasp. It almost hurt him to hold it, yet he hung on, his heart racing.

“To war,” Truthseeker urged him.

“It’s beautiful,” Thum said, staring at it. “I remember how you used it to kill the shapeshifter. We would all have died that night if not for you.” His eyes met Dain’s and widened in wonder. “You’re well again. Is it—is it the sword’s doing?”

“Aye,” Dain replied, soaking in the power that Truthseeker shared with him.

“Is it magicked, like Tanengard?”

Dain shook his head, and saw no reason to keep Lord Odfrey’s secret now. “It’s made of god-steel.”

Thum’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His hazel-green eyes were popping. To his credit, he didn’t flee, although he’d turned nearly as pale as Dain felt.  “ ‘Tis very old,” Dain said when Thum remained silent. “The dwarves search the ancient battlegrounds sometimes in hopes of finding god-steel. They can’t work it, though. My old guardian Jorb told me no one has the knowledge of how to make such metal as this.”

“What is it doing here?” Thum whispered.

“You mean, how came Lord Odfrey to own such a weapon?” Dain asked wryly. “It has been handed down secretly from father to son for generations in his family. He was afraid to carry it, afraid the priests would condemn it and order it destroyed.”

Thum made a strangled, involuntary noise of protest in his throat.  Dain smiled wanly at him. “No,” he assured his friend. “Nothing like that will happen to this blade. It has missed war for centuries. It has been locked away, hidden and feared, but it was made for battle and justice. I will take it back to both.”

At that moment footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the wardroom door. With them, came the sound of voices.

Frowning, Thum turned in that direction. “Blackguards,” he said angrily. “Come to finish the job, no doubt. I’ll—” Dain shushed him quickly. He knew not why church soldiers were returning here, but he didn’t want to learn the reason. He and Thum could not be found, and there was only one other way out.

Swiftly he hurried over to the desk and yanked open the drawer where Lord Odfrey had kept a spare dagger. The weapon was still there. Gripping it and Truthseeker, Dain went to the fireplace and pressed the stone as Lord Odfrey had once shown him.

A small, concealed door slid open in the wall, and a dark passageway yawned there, smelling musty and dank.

Picking up his torch, Thum stared with his mouth open.  The door rattled. “I told you to keep this door locked,” someone outside said in annoyance. “His eminence gave strict orders about it.” Dain beckoned to Thum, and the squire followed him into the passageway like a rabbit bolting into its hole. Inside, Dain saw an iron lever draped with cobwebs. Swiftly he pulled it down, and the hidden door slid shut just as the wardroom door slammed open with a bang.

Crowded together in the narrow space, with the torch held between them close enough to scorch their eyebrows, Dain and Thum listened in silence.  “Damne, he’s gone!” one of the men shouted.

“If you’d locked the door instead of coming to me—”

“No one gave me a key.”

Their bickering continued, then faded away as the door slammed again.  Dain realized he was holding his breath, and slowly eased it out. He met Thum’s gaze. “I think they’re gone.”

“Morde a day, but where does this passage go?” Thum asked.

“I don’t know. Out of the hold somewhere. Come.”

Thum gripped Dain’s arm to keep him from starting down the passageway. “You don’t mean to explore it, surely!”

Dain frowned. “We’re leaving this hold tonight, this very hour. I must get to Nether without delay.”

“But, Dain, what about his highness? What about your attackers?” Dain thought about Sir Polquin, whose death cried out for vengeance. “I will rejoin with Gavril later,” he said grimly. “His villainy will not go unchecked forever. This, I do swear.”

“But you must denounce him. Do it here, before your own men.”

“I will not set Mandrians against Mandrians,” Dain said grimly.